


collide

by vinylroad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Incest, PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF THAT TAG, but it is very creepy, i'm not dicking around, listen if you're a pearl-clutcher, livejournal import, there is very slight jo/john, you're not going to like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 03:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21469576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinylroad/pseuds/vinylroad
Summary: She feels rotted out inside, like a piece of fruit - beneath the rosy apple skin lies dark, decaying flesh.
Relationships: Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	collide

**Author's Note:**

> Importing all my livejournal works. First posted to Livejournal on July 8th, 2007. This has not been edited so I'm sorry about the shitton of grammar errors I made twelve and a half years ago.
> 
> Note on story: This is AU, but uses some of the storyline from the second season (BUABS for example) and therefore has spoilers up until the end of season 2. Jo is also very AU. While she shares some of the same history with canon Jo, I think her personality deviates quite heavily from the Jo on the show.

  
_Demons’ll tell the truth, especially if they know it will mess with your head_

  
Jo thinks that some families are just destined to collide - like trains heading down the same track, they will inevitably meet at some point. Destiny. The only question is how fast they’ll be going when they crash.

  
\--  
  
  
She tries to think happy thoughts.  
  
When her father would slither up behind Ellen while she tended the bar and whisper softly in her ear what he wanted to do with her in bed. Slide his arms around her waist and inhale the scent of errant lime juice from slices shoved into Corona bottles.  
  
When John would let her sit in the front seat of his truck, telling her about the latest hunt and letting her hold the knife he killed the black dog with in New Jersey. The hours she’d spend rifling through his journal, soaking up the information.  
  
When she’d hustle a seasoned hunter out of a couple bucks. When she helped exorcise her first demon.  
  
This is what she wants to remember. Not the smell of dirty ashtrays and stale pretzels as Sam slams her head into the bar.  
  
_This is how fast they collide._  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_I told you I didn’t want him here. After everything that I have given… that I have forgiven, why can’t you do this one thing for me?  
  
Her mother snarls and she hears a beer bottle shatter.  
  
You know I can’t. Why do you ask for things you know I can’t give? Jesus fucking Christ Bill, he did us a favour.  
  
Her father laughs bitterly. _  
  
  
\--  
  
  
She likes John Winchester. He has an easy smile, warm hands. For a brief period when she was a little girl, she thought he was Santa Claus. Every time he would blow into town, drifting by the Roadhouse, he’d bring her a little something. A locket. A shiny piece of quartz from a devil’s pit. A wicked story about witches and lost boys.  
  
But the real reason she likes John Winchester is because while her father always treated her interest in hunting with cool reservation (_You’re a girl Jo, you need to act like one. Hunting is dangerous work_.), John enjoys taking her out behind the Roadhouse to shoot at old olive cans. Presses up behind her, one hand on her hip while the other steadies her arm.  
  
_It’s easy_, he says quietly, a soft chuckle as she snorts in annoyance. _Point and shoot. Gun’s an extension of your body._  
  
She hits the can on the first try, a bullet-hole positioned perfectly in the can like a pimento in an olive.  
  
_That’s my girl._  
  
Two years later, when her father takes her out back, she pretends that it’s her first time.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Secret stares, stolen glimpses. She hates it when her father stares at her when he thinks she isn’t paying attention. It’s not so much the looking, but the way he does it. Sometimes it’s so hard and heated that she feels like her flesh is cooking, roasting ‘til it slides off the bone. Other times, his eyes are hazy, like he’s off on a hunt, salting and burning bones, not sitting at home.  
  
_You look so much like your mother, he whispers, rubbing his finger along the ridge of his nose._  
  
At night, she sneaks down the long hallway, past her parents’ room, making sure not to step on the floorboard near the door that’s loose and squeaks loudly. She slips into the bathroom, making sure to flip the makeshift lock closed, and stares at herself in the mirror. Stares until her face is no longer hers, but pieces of her family.  
  
Her mother’s nose. Her grandmother’s mouth. Her father’s eyes.  
  
When she turns 14, she has her last growth spurt. Her father stops hugging her. A year later, he’s dead.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
After the funeral, Jo stops talking for six months. A silent mourn.  
  
John doesn’t come back for two years.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
When he finally comes back to the Roadhouse, he is completely unreadable, the chilly silent air between him and her mother evidence to Jo of the secrets to which she will never be privy.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
She’s 17 and the pigtails and ratty jeans are gone. Her body screams woman, soft flesh and tight curves. Customers who had watched her grow up suddenly begin following her with heavy-lidded eyes, wanting. Let their fingers brush hers when she comes to collect their beer bottles and shot glasses, wink at her when they leave tips far too big for men of limited means.  
  
Part of her loves it; the sudden power that being a petite, blonde _thing_ gives her. But she doesn’t know how to wield it – she’s a novice, but she’s always been a quick learner and she wants it so badly it scares her. Wants to show_ them_ who’s the boss. Especially the ones that used to scoff at her adamant claims that she was going to be a hunter, just like her daddy. Placate her with a _sure you will honey_, while patting her on the head like a puppy. She wants them on their knees begging for it.  
  
So that thick, humid July night, when she makes out with the tall hunter from Oklahoma in the supply closet across from Ash’s room, she wonders whether the trophy is worth the tournament. Beautiful, but boring. Like being pawed at by a boy with sausage fingers and no finesse.  
  
Most hunters are selfless in battle, selfish in bed. A life of travelling from town to town, bedding women generous enough to sleep with a rough stranger who can offer little more than broken promises; never having to face the consequences of an unsatisfied lover the next day, always onto the next. _Most think foreplay is a sports term,_ she bemuses.  
  
So when he sticks his hands down her jeans, sliding a finger against her, she lets out a loud surprised moan. _How generous. Maybe I had this one pegged wrong. _  
  
When she feels a gush of wind funnelling into the storage room, her eyes fly open. The door is open and light bleeds into the dark room.  
  
_Fuck, **MOM.**_  
  
But it’s not her mother. Instead, she sees the fleeting image of a man with a rough beard as he rips at the collar of the boy with his hand down her pants. She yelps in pain when the boy’s hand tears out of her jeans as he flies out of the room and across the hall, into Ash’s door. He falls to the floor, staring up at the broad shoulders and sharp face of the man that put him there.  
  
John lets out a growl and Jo’s throat falls into her stomach. She squeezes her thighs together, not out of shame or modesty, but to try and control the heat. She feels a sickness begin to twirl in her stomach, sinking lower, into a dark, angry place.  
  
The boy scrambles up off the floor, his heavy belt buckle that Jo had undone in order to get her hand down his jeans clacking heavily on the floor. He grabs at his drooping pants in a frantic panic, doing a hybrid waddle-run down the hall.  
  
She’s put off by the awkward silence, suddenly very aware of being alone with him, only a few feet between her and his back. She sees his shoulders anxiously bunch and then relax, like he’s engaged in silent pep talk with himself. She wonders what he’s thinking - if he’s going to tell her mother, if he’s going to scream at her like a parent at an unruly child… if he’s going to going to replace the hand that used to be down her pants.  
  
When he finally does turn around, he looks like she’s slapped him - hard. His mouth is twisted and he’s breathing hard. There’s something burning under his skin, smouldering in his eyes.  
  
_Anger? Disappointment? **Jealousy**?_  
  
Jo wants to be cool, let it slide down over her bare shoulders, but her face is stuck somewhere between want and anger. _ Don’t show your cards - poker face Jo, poker face_. She scrunches her nose up and _scowls_. She moves out of the closet, stepping right into John’s comfort zone, nose inches from his chest when she tilts her head back to meet his eyes and glares. She wears angry indignation well.  
  
_Who the hell do you think **you are?**_ She spits, thumping her finger against his chest for dramatic effect. _I’m not some fucking **kid**_.  
  
She loves dramatic exits, so when she goes flying down the hall, he lets her, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall with a heavy, contemplative sigh. He's willing to indulge her.  
  
When he finds her again, she’s out back, kicking an olive can riddled with bullet holes. Her jeans are still partially open, the split revealing soft peach-coloured cotton underpants.  
  
He just stares at her, mouth flopping open and shut like a fish. Like he’s waiting to tell her something earth-shattering, but can’t figure out how to say it. She doesn’t really want to hear it anyway.  
  
When she leans up to kiss him, tilting her head back and catching his bottom lip between hers, he freezes, his hands brushing against her bare hips. He tastes like Jack Daniels and sin, and she can feel herself getting wet – wetter than she was when Sausagefingers Oklahoma had his hand down her pants. John’s belt buckle is cold, pressing into her soft navel and she can _feel _him responding to her. She wants to slide her hands down his jeans, wants him to want her, wants him to beg, wants him to fuck her. Her _first_.  
  
She moves to deepen the kiss, letting go of his bottom lip and lifting herself up on her toes to reach his mouth. As soon as her mouth is on his, she feels hands grip her shoulders and rip her off of him. She hits the ground hard, her hip taking the most punishment as her head bounces off dirt with a thud.  
  
_O-Oh, no._ John’s shaking. _Jesus. **Jesus.**_  
  
He backs away, facing her like she’s a bear waiting to attack, hands out, palms stretched. He leaves her sitting in the damp Nebraska dirt. She doesn’t let him see her cry. But she cries when she hears his truck tear out of the parking lot. She cries when her mother comes to the back door, staring in slack-jawed horror at her daughter, pants open, crying in the dirt.  
  
She never sees John Winchester again.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
In all the years that John had been stopping by the Roadhouse, he had never mentioned the fact that he had a son, let alone _two_. The older one, Dean, looks so much like John it makes Jo feel slightly queasy, like she’s back down on the ground, covered in dirt.  
  
This time, she wants to sink her fingers into it, get _really_ dirty. This time is going to be different.  
  
It's wet this time. She can feel the moisture from the dirt seeping through her jeans and into her knees when she’s out back, behind the Roadhouse, sucking him hard and long, her hand squeezing the base of his cock. He’s making little moaning noises that make Jo smile around him. The boy has the dirtiest mouth she’s ever heard, and she’s getting excited when he starts telling her what he wants to do to her, what he’s _going_ to do to her when he gets her away from her _mommy_.  
  
_Such a pretty little mouth_, he says, thrusting his hips hard, spilling into it.  
  
When he reaches down, yanks her up against his body and touches the top of her jeans, growling _in the spirit of reciprocity_, she brushes his hand away and leans up to suck his bottom lip into her mouth. Smiles with victory.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_Stay away from him Jo_, her mother says once the boys leave, her voice deep and threatening. _I’m begging you._  
  
Jo’s never been a good listener.  
  
She starts making _plans_  
  
  
\--  
  
  
He goes down on her in the storage closet across from Ash’s room when he comes back from the circus. _Such a pretty little mouth_, she sighs as he peels her pants down. He gives her a wicked grin.  
  
_Sassy_, he says, breathing on her damp underwear. White cotton. _Fuck,_ he hisses, kissing her panties, making her throw her head back. _I love it. What you got for me in there, little girl?_  
  
She can’t speak; she’s forgotten English.  
_  
Dirty little girl._  
  
He licks the front of her panties. _Jesus fucking **Christ** Dean, stop teasing._  
  
He smiles against the wet spot, nose digging into her crotch. _What do you want me to do? Lick you? I can do that baby, all you gotta do is ask._  
  
_Uhhh, l-lick me.  
  
Say please.  
  
**Please.**_  
  
He just pulls her panties aside and sticks his mouth over her, sucking and licking. She smashes her head back so hard against the wall that it leaves a lump, that she’ll rub for days, thinking about his tongue and his mouth. He grabs one of her thighs, lifting it over his shoulder to help her balance, spreading her open for him.  
  
In all her quick backroom make-outs, frenzied handjobs and dirty talk, she has never experienced anything like this. She wants to cry, beg, surrender. Hands up, eyes down, take me now.  
  
She’s on the edge and when he slides a slim finger in, she falls apart with a sob.  
  
When her heart rate settles, she can feel the tip of his finger pressing against the thin layer of skin inside her. She looks down at him and as their eyes meet, he quickly rips his hand back… like it's on fire.  
  
_Uh, sorry._  
  
She knows that look. _Oh **Jesus**_, she thinks to herself.  
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
She doesn’t say anything, just yanks her panties back into place.  
  
_I’m sorry. I just thought… I saw you with the other…  
  
Great, Dean. Thanks a fucking lot._  
  
She knows what he’s thinking; she knows the type. Saw her with the other hunters, flirting and touching. Thought she was a big _whore_, that he was another notch on her bedpost so he could whisper dirty thoughts, roleplay, fuck her without guilt. Who knew the big whore was a big virgin?  
  
_Fucking chickenshit asshole,_ she thinks to herself. She’s sinking into dirt, rich and earthy.  
  
  
  
When he gives her a half-hearted hug as he leaves later with Sam, leaning in to kiss her _forehead_, all she can think is _fucccccck_.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_I’m serious Jo. They’re trouble. Those boys are off-limits in this house. No hunting either._  
  
That suits Jo just fine. She fucking _hates_ Nebraska dirt anyway.  
  
She packs her bags.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_I know that demons lie, but do they ever tell the truth Dean?_  
  
She feels like she’s dead. Like Sam stuck the knife in her gut. That the blood on her hands isn’t Dean’s, but her own.  
  
She wants to stick her fingers in her mouth to see if he _tastes like her_.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
A month and half after Duluth, when Dean says he’ll call and never does, he tracks her down at the Layzeebee Motel outside of Durrant, Maine. When she hears the roar of the Impala motor outside her room over the humming of the heater in her room, she clenches her fists and wills herself not to throw the cheap motel chair through the windshield of his fucking car.  
  
_So this is what it takes, hmm?_  
  
She's spent six weeks brooding, seething in pitch black ugliness. She feels rotted out inside, like a piece of fruit - beneath the rosy apple skin lies dark, decaying flesh. Want and shame have gnawed at her insides until there’s nothing left. She stops eating properly, shovelling down canned tuna and cold ravioli when she feels her body start to turn on itself, eating muscle and making her weak. She starts pushing everything: people, things, herself. Hustling at bars with patrons that wouldn’t mind pounding a girl’s face in, hunting things she knows she can’t kill.  
  
She knows why he’s here. The panicked call from Ash, the hushed voice so Ellen doesn’t hear. _Dead hunter. Girl. Maine. Is it Jo?_  
  
Later, she’ll feel guilty about starting the rumour. Right now, she’s got a debt to settle.  
  
She’s got a _plan_.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
She can hear his heavy footsteps outside, his fists on the door.  
  
_Open the goddamn door, Jo. I know you’re in there._  
  
She flicks a speck of dust off of her shirt, easy… carefree. The pounding on the door stops and she hears a thump as he rests his forehead on the door, mouth close to the jamb. He’s hissing.  
_  
You listen to me… I’m not fucking around with you. Open the damn door._  
  
She slides the chain closed before opening the door a crack, just enough to see outside. His eyes are dark, bloodshot and angry, his body leaning forward towards the door opening, supported by one hand on the frame.  
  
_Take the chain off, Jo…_ It’s a growl more than a request.  
  
_Christo._ He flinches softly at the word, stepping back from the doorframe.  
  
_Can’t be too careful these days, Dean. Last time a Winchester showed up on my doorstep, things didn’t work out so well, did they?_  
  
  
\--  
  
  
It’s _not _gentle. It’s _not_ nice.  
  
She knows every button to push. John, Sam, even Mary. _Button, button, button._  
  
She’s a _bitch_, she’s rotten to the core. She has the scars to prove it. She’s running her finger down the one under her collarbone when she notices him staring.  
  
_Like it? Your little brother gave it to me_, she hisses,_ wasn’t the only thing he was going to give me. Would you have let him, Dean?_  
  
He’s standing in the other corner of the dark room, staring at her with incredulous eyes. Dark, hunched over trying to protect himself from her words. She can smell the mix of shame and want, floating off of him. She’s leaner now, the soft flesh of adolescence left behind long ago, filled with muscle and curve. She’s made of bitter and sex, and he can smell her too.  
  
She wants to claw at his eyes, punch him in the gut. She wants to tug on his hair. She wants to suck on that mouth… the mouth she’s been thinking about for weeks.  
  
Instead, she just walks over to the other side of the room, grabs his hand and thrusts it down her pants, letting his finger slide into the copious _wet_.  
  
_Did it turn you on?_  
  
He cracks. Right down the middle. Bleeding sex, anger and fear.  
  
He pulls on her jeans so hard that the button flies off. He rips them down her thighs, tearing them off the ends of her feet as she leans back against the wall for balance. She’s got a cruel smirk on her face and it only seems to push him further, egging him on. His hands grip her thighs so hard they’re already leaving angry purple statements of _Dean was here._  
  
_I wore them just for you._  
  
He sinks to his knees, head bent in a silent prayer to the thin strip of fabric between her legs. He leans foreword and sucks on her through the cotton until it’s see-through, which isn’t hard because she’s so wet she’s dripping down her thighs. He peels her white cotton panties down and pauses one last time to kiss her between her thighs, tongue twisting into her.  
  
_He_ has the condom and she wonders if he had a _plan_ too.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
When she says _Fuck it out of me, Dean_, he doesn’t pretend to know what it means.  
  
When he does, she doesn’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
She wants to take a shower, wash the blood from between her thighs, but she doesn’t want him to wake up. She doesn’t want the questions, doesn’t want his excuses. She doesn’t want to explain why she’s become such a monster, why she’s so broken, why she can’t stop thinking about him. Why she dreams about his mouth every night.  
  
She leaves quietly while he’s sleeping, tossing a couple twenties on the table for the motel bill.  
  
She leaves first.  
  
Because _no one_ leaves Jo Harvelle.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
By the time Jo hears about the fire, she’s halfway through Tennessee. It’s been three weeks and she’s still dreaming about his mouth.  
  
She can see the outline of soot where bodies have been pulled from the rubble. By police or by fellow hunters, she’s not quite sure. Although the fire had burned long and hot, she can still see little remnants of her former life.  
  
She finds the little safe that her mother had kept in the basement, it’s contents scattered on the ground, covered in black soot. A few photos of her father and mother before she was born, her mother sitting on the hood of a ’67 Roadrunner, her un-calloused hands brushing away strands of golden hair flying in her face. Some old insurance documents, her mother’s will.  
  
Her birth records. She picks them up, trying to wipe the dirt off them, only managing to force it deeper into the paper. _7lbs 4oz. Greenlit General Hospital._  
  
_Well, whaddaya know_, she thinks with a bitter sneer, _demons** can** tell the truth._  
  
Father, _John Winchester_.  
  
Her soul is made of Nebraska dirt. Grit, cold, unclean.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_Sam leans closer, close enough to snake a tongue out to touch the shell of her ear.  
  
Your daddy shot your daddy in the head._  
  
  
  
**_This is how fast we collide._**


End file.
